


Fill 'Er Up

by scilesandco



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Belly Kink, Feeding, Feeding Kink, Gen, chubby!Stiles, mentions of weight gain, self belly rubs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-10
Updated: 2013-09-10
Packaged: 2017-12-26 05:51:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,536
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/962366
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scilesandco/pseuds/scilesandco
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's not so much a darkness, as it is an emptiness. Stiles figures out the best way to fill it though.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fill 'Er Up

It's not so much a darkness as it is an emptiness. 

Stiles had been expecting something akin to a Hulk like anger, you know? Something cool, at least, to show for his trouble, but all that's there is this weird feeling in the pit of his stomach, kind of like something's missing.

It doesn't last for long.

–

Stiles is content to blame it all on Scott and Isaac. It started with them, during a weekend of bad movies and more crappy snacks than two werewolves and a pathetically human teenager should have been able to consume.

Stiles, whose house was usually devoid of such treats, had gone overboard, and it was only after he'd decimated over half of their haul on his own, when his belly was grossly bloated, straining against the buttons of his ever present plaid shirt, that he realized the empty feeling that had been plaguing him since that dip into the ice bath was gone.

And it was all downhill from there.

–

It's not like the emptiness really feels bad, but once Stiles knows what it feels like to feel whole again, he mostly can't stop. 

He keeps the gorging to a minimum through the week in an effort to hide what he's doing from his dad. But on the weekends, when he's at work more than he's home and it's easier to keep the kitchen stocked with all the awesomely unhealthy things that had once been banned from the Stilinski home, all bets are off.

Tonight, he's starting with an empty stomach. It hasn't been easy, forgoing breakfast and lunch like he had just to maximize input once he's all alone, but he's managed, and once his dad has come in to say his goodbyes for the night, with a reminder to not burn the house down, it's on.

It's on like Donkey Kong.

Stiles decides it's going to be pizza. Again. It's become a staple of his diet, so much so that the girl down at the pizza place knows him by name now just based on the order: a large Meat Lover's, side order of breadsticks and a 2 litre of coke.

In the past, it's proven to be overly ambitious of him, but tonight, with the way his empty belly gurgles and groans almost desperately, he's pretty sure that this is going to be the night that he's at last victorious, and it's with that thought that he gets started.

The first two pieces go down like nothing. They barely even begin to sate the hunger that's been plaguing him all day, and he doesn't hesitate at all to reach for the third. 

He slumps back against the couch, one hand resting against his slowly bloating gut, rubbing almost lazily at the way it's already started filling. He's vaguely aware, somewhere in the very back of his mind, that he shouldn't enjoy this as much as he does.

That this is the stuff of kinky bastards, and it's weird, and unhealthy, and a whole plethora of other things, but it makes the emptiness go away, and it feels good.

So mostly, Stiles doesn't really give two shits about the other stuff.

He continues along for awhile, alternating bites of pizza with sips of Coke. He'd learned the first night that he'd tried this that slow, lazy sips of the carbonated beverage were the way to go, because anything else made him bloat up too quickly, leaving not nearly enough room for the more filling stuff.

(Soda bloat's awesome too, but Stiles prefers the heaviness of a belly stuffed tight with food, heavy enough that it sags a little beneath its own weight.)

It's only after he finishes his fifth slice of pizza that Stiles begins to feel the stirrings of fullness, and now, more than ever, he's convinced that tonight he's going to do it.

He switches it up a little bit, reaching for the box of breadsticks. It's a single size, five of them in all, but even now, as he swallows down the first bite, he imagines himself growing bigger, larger, fatter until he can force not only a large pizza into his gut, but a family sized order of breadsticks too, and-- oh.

There's a definite stirring of something else now, below his tightening belly. He's definitely going to have to explore that later too.

Stiles shifts on the couch now, moving to lay back completely, giving his belly more room to grow. He's vaguely aware of the weight pushing down on him now that he's completely supine, and it only serves to turn him on just a little bit more, to think of how he's managed to do this to himself, to think of how much further he still has to go.

He's pretty sure that if he manages this tonight, he's not going to be moving for awhile, and not for the first time, he congratulates himself on the genius of doing this only when his dad is gone.

Explaining the weird supernatural shit to his dad was bad enough, but Stiles resolutely does not want to have to go into why he enjoys eating himself stupid, pushing his gut to its limits, until it looks like it'll burst at any given moment.

–

He has to take a break when he finishes up the breadsticks. His belly's actually starting to hurt now, sending warning signs up to his brain that he's just really, really full, but he's so determined to finish the rest of that pizza.

Stiles' head lolls to the side and he groans a little, pressing in hard against that tight mound before working his fingers over it, as if trying to rearrange all the contents he'd stuffed into it just to make room for more. It's not as effective as he would like, but still, he reaches out and grabs one more piece.

There are two left in the box, one in his hand, and he decides that the best way to tackle them is to just shove them down as quickly as he can, as if by doing so, he'll be able to trick his body into thinking its not that much, and it's with great gusto that he devours the sixth slice.

It may have been a mistake.

There are actually shooting pains now, as if the offended organ is punishing him for his gluttony, but Stiles refuses to be stopped, not when he's so close. He slides one hand slowly down his aching gut, fingers fumbling lazily with the button of his jeans until he pops it free, and oh God, his belly surges forward, pressing the zipper down as it spills out over the band.

It does little to alleviate the painful fullness inside of him, but he's certain that it had to free up a little room, and he pokes at his belly experimentally, checking to see if there's any give. There is, just a little bit, maybe enough for those last two slices, and it's with that thought that Stiles reaches for the box.

He can't bring himself to actually reach for it though, fingers instead just grazing the edge and he pulls it closer until he can just manage to grab part of the crust.

Stiles knows he's going to have to get creative if he wants to make this work, if he wants to have all eight pieces in his belly, so he grabs the other and plops it on top, making a pizza sandwich.

He pauses for a moment, grabbing his drink to hold it to his lips, taking the smallest sip yet just to wet his tongue and then it's go time. He doesn't give himself the opportunity to think this through, to possibly talk himself out of it, he just goes.

And in the end, he's positive that he's going to split right open.

The very last bite of the pizza hits his gut like a two ton weight, and he moans pathetically. His belly's tighter now than it's ever been, and his shirt has risen, displaying his overly stuffed and swollen stomach, and it mostly kind of looks like someone's pumped him full of air.

He's heavy and fat, exhausted by his own gluttony, and a gentle press of his fingers to the side of bloated, pale skin reveals that there's no more room inside of him at all. There's no give to be found, just a tightness that's so painful he cries out a little bit and finds himself wishing that he'd called Scott, his very best bro, just to come over and rub away his pains.

But his phone's too far away now and Stiles is certain he's not going anywhere, at least for awhile, so he settles for rubbing his own gut, slowly, lazily, sleepily.

The emptiness that's always there is gone, at least temporarily, and it's been replaced with a fullness so profound that Stiles can almost believe that he's fixed it, that he's plugged up that hole in the pit of his belly for good.

Almost.

Because Stiles knows it'll come back, and it'll eat away at him once more.

At least until the next time Stiles gets to fill it up again.


End file.
